


His Worst Nightmare

by blogyourfeelings



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-24
Updated: 2014-10-11
Packaged: 2018-02-18 15:13:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2352929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blogyourfeelings/pseuds/blogyourfeelings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's mind has always had strange ways of telling him things. Now, with Moriarty back, his unconscious is telling him to focus. <i> Focus on Molly.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock feels the heave of his chest as he races down a familiar staircase, oxygen pumping through his veins, his heart thudding violently in his chest. **_Why is he here?_** He’s not sure, but his mind knows where he has go, even if he doesn’t want to. His mind has habit of betraying him, of guiding him into dark, unwanted territories.

The door wrenches open to allow white, padded walls to meet his eyes, horror struck by the open chain lying on the ground.

"I’m baaaaaaack," Moriarty drawls out from behind him, free from his straightjacket and into a sharp, well fitted suit. Dressed for the occasion. "Did you miss me Sherlock?"

His shark-like grin widens as he reaches out to grab something. _**Someone.**_ Moriarty strolls back into his cell, dragging Molly by her hair. She looks terrified, bruises blooming on her pallid skin, blood painted on her pretty cherry cardigan.

"Molly missed me, didn’t you dear?" Moriarty asks, his grip on her hair causing teeth gritting pain. Sherlock can do nothing but watch as Molly refuses to respond. It only angers the Irishman further, his crazed eyes widening as he shouts. "DIDN’T YOU?"

Molly stays resolutely silent, not shrinking away, but keeping her eyes focused on the ground. Moriarty sighs, releasing his clutch on Molly's locks. He forces her to kneel, pulling a gun out the inside pocket of his suit, pressing the end of the barrel into the back of her head.

Moriarty glances up to gauge the detective’s reaction. “Is this what you did to Magnussen, Sherlock?” He inquiries. Molly's brown eyes flick up, screaming at him. _It’s okay. Don’t blame yourself. This isn’t your fault._

Moriarty turns Molly sideways to face him, the metal of the gun forced so hard into her forehead it leaves an angry, red indent. The consulting criminal grins manically. “No, you shot him face to face, didn’t you?” He strokes Molly cheek gently with his free hand. “Shame to ruin such a pretty face though,” Moriarty says regretfully.

"Let her go," Sherlock demands. Desperation is leaking out his every pore, every nerve in his body is seized with sheer panic, despite his attempts to shield the depth of it. The cards are on the table, Sherlock has already shown his hand and he fears Moriarty already knows the queen of his heart.

"We both know that’s not going to happen, so let’s not drag this out," Moriarty tells him calmly. His face twists. "That’s the problem with fairy-tales, Sherlock," He mutters darkly, teeth clenching. "Some do go on far, far too long."

"I agree," Sherlock replies, trying to stall him, to figure out some plan to get them both out of here alive. But he doesn’t have his brother’s help with some sarcastic remark, or John to save the life while he deals with the criminal, no Mary in all black to end Moriarty with one bullet. He has _nothing._

"You see, Sherlock, one little pop…" He whispers, but the words are daggers to his heart, to his uncomprehending eyes. One twitch of Moriarty’s finger, triggers the bullet, firing straight in the centre of Molly’s forehead. Just like that. She falls backward, in the full view of Sherlock’s frozen gaze. Dead, glazed eyes, the soul ripped from the honey brown, have Sherlock on his knees. He brushes her blood stained hair from her face, frantically trying to find life in the brightest, the most brilliant woman he’s ever encountered.

"…And off she goes," Moriarty finishes, as he saunters out, his eyes gleaming as he shuts the heavy, metal door to the cell.

Sherlock is left, trapped in a self-made hell, with nothing but his worst nightmare.

_______

It’s not a jolt into consciousness, spurred by shock, but a slow, sick wait for reawakening.

As soon as he realises he tears away from the material of his chair, heading for his bedroom in a frenzy of hurried movement to where she should be. A cry rips out of his throat as he reassures himself of her peaceful, sleeping figure.

But he has to move closer, feel the comforting thrum of her heart, to smell the exhales of her breath, to let himself kiss the unmarred skin of her forehead. To see her dark eyes glow in the blackness of the night, sparkling with wonder, and humour, and _life._

"Sherlock?" She groans groggily. Her dark orbs blink up at him with confusion, but it's enough to settle the anxious drumming of his heart.

"Bad dream," He explains, his lips not ready to leave her skin. He peppers more desperate kisses on her hair.

This is a reminder- a kick up the arse, as John would say- a Molly like mental slap to his face. It's his mind saying **focus** , focus on _her._  
  
Moriarty’s threat to him, to her, could not be more stark- it’s as clear to him as the dreaded image of Molly’s lifeless corpse- but he can’t let this madman stop him from loving her. So he allows himself to be lulled by her steady breaths, to forget the unthinkable darkness of his nightmares, and to soak in the euphoria of her presence.


	2. Her Worst Nightmare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is not the only one who feels the effects of Moriarty's return in their dreams. Molly's nightmares tell her that The Fall was just one battle, and the game has yet to be won.

The walk down to morgue Molly has experienced hundreds of times- in all those times she's never felt the journey grim, even when accompanied by a green looking rookie policeman or an inconsolable family member. 

But as she pads down the corridor, paperwork in hand, the walls appear to have taken a greyer pallor. The lights seem dimmer, casting the end of hallway in darkness, and she gets a gut-wrenching instinct something is very, very wrong.

She peeks through the entrance of the morgue- feeling like one of those bimbo women they always have in cheesy horror movies-to find nothing out the ordinary. No monsters, no men in black to knock her out, no Moriarty to tease her before he acts out some reckoning for her part in Sherlock’s faked suicide.

Sighing, she chastises herself for being so paranoid, and sets her mind back to routine and rhythm of work. Autopsies to be done, paperwork to be filed.

She flips open the manila folder to find out the latest poor soul who’d found themselves on a cold morgue slab under her care.

All feelings of forced calm slip away, as does the file, the papers crashing to the floor in an explosion of white. But all Molly can see is black. Four black printed words that shake her to the core, that tilt the axis of her world. 

**William Sherlock Scott Holmes.**

She scrambles for the steel handle, jerking the slab out in a frenzied movement.

"No, no, no-" She moans, her eyes scanning over the body. Dark, splayed curls, white as milk skin, a prominent freckle on his exposed neck. A red, jagged scar on his pale chest.

"You owe me, Molly Hooper," A voice comes from the door, echoing over her horror. It chimes out like an old, haunting bell."You owe me a life."

Moriarty moves to stand on the other side of the slab, grinning manically as Molly tries to find any pulse of life in Sherlock. There’s no rhythmic thud, thud, thud. No inhale or exhale.

"You said you were mousy," Moriarty spits out, as her hands still in abject terror. "You acted mousy, all coy when I took you on dates, with your silly cat and your horrid taste in television programs," The Irishman mocks, so far away from the sweet man he’d portrayed as Jim from IT. "You tricked me. You’re not mousy at all."

Molly is frozen in spot, passively listening to his words, but unable to comprehend anything but the corpse in front of her. Her eyes beg any sign that this was a fake- another decoy- for the real Sherlock to come strolling in, armed with the might of his intelligence and wit.

"I was winning and then you ruined my game," Moriarty whispers, but with the impact of a dagger. Sharp and precise, right to her heart. "And poor old Sherlock had to pay the price."

Hot, salt tears burn a path down her cheeks. Her fingers stroke through Sherlock's limp curls, down to trace the lids of his closed eyes and the shape of his mouth. Perfect red lips-so often used to spit deductions, insults, but capable of expressing such love and eloquence as well- were now clamped shut for good.

"He thought I’d go after you to punish him," Moriarty continues, unperturbed by her silence. Rather, he seems to be enjoying it. The consulting criminal reaches out to caress Molly’s wet cheek and she doesn't even flinch at his frozen, slimy touch. "But it was you who beat me before. Not Sherlock. _You._ You won the game. But now you lose."

"I lose," She repeats, broken, a heaviness crushing her chest and stomach. Like she was the one on the top of Bart's roof, primed to jump, to fall and fall until she reached the concrete with a sickening thud. 

A whole miserable life flashes before her eyes, one without the flair of a grey coat bringing havoc to her work, her home, her life. One without the tenderness of cheek kisses, and the shared joy of morbid jokes, and warm laughter at experiments gone awry. It didn’t seem a life worth living. No, it sounded rather like a nightmare. 

———

Molly awakens, cotton sheets clinging to her skin with sweat just as the horrid feeling of dread weighs down on her gut. 

The quietness of Baker Street does nothing to placate her. It’s a noisy place by nature. She’s grown used to the calming sounds of Sherlock’s violin at ungodly hours of the night, to floors creaking as he paces the wooden floor, papers rustling and frantic typing. Tonight, she hears nothing.

"Sherlock?"She calls out. Softly, as not to startle the detective, as he's been under a crushing weight of stress as it is. His anxiety is palpable to anyone who knows him well, clear from the mess of the flat and his extremely short temper of late. Only Molly is aware of the nightmares that have been plaguing him, that have him occasionally crawling into bed with her, unable to calm himself without her presence. The return of Moriarty has brought a fear that has sunk so deep into their flesh, into their bones, they cannot even escape it in their dreams. 

Thoughts of Moriarty have her rushing out the bedroom, into the darkness of the hallway, quickly shuffling her way down to the kitchen. Dim yellow street-lighting leak through the windows, but bring no sign of what she’s searching for.

It’s only when she gains a full view of the living-room that her desperate eyes find him.

He’s in his mind palace, on the big couch rather than his chair, fingers steepled, miles deep in thought. “Sherlock!” She exclaims in utter joy. His startled eyes shoot up to her, barely registering the relief in her expression, before being engulfed by her. She leaps onto his lap, knees either side his narrow hips, flinging her tiny arms around his neck with a surprising strength.

She pulls back hastily, purposeful in her movements. Her fingers grapple for his wrist, hearing the blissful rhythm of his pulse. The thumb of her other hand drifts along the sharp edge of his cheekbone, the closeness of their faces allowing her to savour the warm puffs of his breath on her skin.

"Nightmare?" He inquires, his hand on her hip pulling her impossibly closer. It must be easy for him to deduce from her panicked actions, the cold sheen of sweat on her skin, the heavy, recovering exhales of her breath.

She nods. “Nightmare,” She confirms, her bottom lip quivering.

Sherlock notices, lifting a large hand to brush his thumb across her lip in a comforting caress. The tenderness of his touch has her close to tears, so she returns her arms to hang loosely around his neck, laying her head on his chest. Her lips trace over the location of the continuing drum of his heart.

"It’s okay," Sherlock reassures, the baritone of his voice sounding strained by the affect of her frayed emotions. His hands rub soothing circles on her back to calm her. "I’m here, Molly. I’m right here."

And as long as that was true, no matter how long this twisted game would be dragged out for, Molly knew she could not lose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Never planned to write another chapter for this...it just sorta happened, as Sherlock would say :) Hope you guys are having a lovely weekend!

**Author's Note:**

> The darkness in this story is the result of a bad day at uni. I wrote this in the library, when I should have been doing actual work. Please reward my procrastination with your lovely reviews and kudos!
> 
> Also, if you want, you can come follow me over on tumblr, where my name is blogyourfeelingsaway. You can send me prompts and let me flood your dash with Sherlolly fluff :)


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